


Two Good Reasons

by electricskeptic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-27
Updated: 2011-06-27
Packaged: 2017-10-23 05:23:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricskeptic/pseuds/electricskeptic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing about bad ideas is, they often have this way of working out for the best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Good Reasons

**Author's Note:**

> Vaguely AU future-fic in that it pretty much ignores the last three episodes of S6. Title from the Kinks.

  
**  
Two Good Reasons   
**   


July in South Dakota; it’s unseasonably hot even for the time of year, sweat dripping down Dean’s neck, prickling in the bend of his elbows, the backs of his knees. Castiel’s hand is warm and slightly clammy in his own as Dean drags the angel between rows of burned-out cars, sunlight reflecting off rust and fracturing, splintering into a million different directions. They’ve been drinking, lukewarm beers passed between them on Bobby’s porch, but he isn’t drunk. Just buzzed enough that his senses are dulled in a pleasant, comfortable way, edges fuzzed out so he feels like doing something reckless.

“What are you doing?” Castiel doesn’t sound weary or frustrated anymore, doesn’t sound like he’s falling apart at the seams. He’s all polite curiosity and intense focus, this ageless thing with an almost childish vulnerability and a hint of burnished steel. A mass of contradictions, and Dean wants to study all of them, immerse himself in them completely until he’s as well-versed in Cas as he is in Sam. They’ve all three of them been spending the last few weeks unwinding at Bobby’s, learning how to communicate with one another outside of a war zone, but Dean craves _more_. He’s caught himself looking at Castiel more and more often lately, wondering how it would be to mess him up a little, dismantle some of that angelic composure. He hasn’t quite put together yet what it all means, but he’d like to.

“Just -- shush,” he instructs, leans Castiel up against an old Toyota and looks at him for a moment or two. For all his awkward fumbling through human social customs, Castiel is no innocent, not some clueless ingénue, and Dean doesn’t miss the sudden heat in his gaze at their proximity, the way his pupils dilate just a fraction and his eyes drop down to briefly fix on Dean’s lips before flitting back up. His face is a question mark, expectant and hopeful, and Dean lets go of any lingering doubts as he leans in to erase the barely-there distance between them.

The first kiss is all dry lips and jangling nerves, slightly out of alignment, perfect in its imperfection. It’s like coming home, like a missing puzzle piece slotting into place, a thousand other clichés rolled into the push of his mouth against Castiel’s, and Dean wonders how it’s possible to want something so badly without even realizing until the moment it’s suddenly _there_.

Castiel sighs when Dean’s tongue traces the inside of his lower lip; such a tiny sound, but it’s the most content Dean’s ever heard him. His hand makes a fist in the front of Dean’s shirt, but there’s no real strength behind the grip. Like he’s using Dean as an anchor, a center of gravity. It’s a feeling Dean can relate to; he’s too damn used to leaning on Castiel, a solid pillar of support that’s always there just when he needs it. Dean has difficulty holding onto people for fear that he won’t be able to let them go, but it’s been almost four years now and Castiel is still hanging around to bug the hell out of him. No matter how many times he’s been disintegrated or flapped off in a huff, Castiel always comes back.

Dean opens his mouth wider, deepening the kiss, tongues sliding together in a slow, rough cadence that crescendoes and diminishes as they learn each other’s rhythms. The heat between them is suffocating, almost unbearable in its intensity; Dean feels like he could combust from it, but what a way to go.

He pulls away only when oxygen becomes an issue but doesn’t stray far even then, foreheads pushed together, thumb smoothing lightly over the thin skin beneath Castiel’s eye. Castiel hums, radiant with pleasure, hand loosening its grip on Dean’s shirt and sliding round to rest on his back, casually possessive.

“This is a really bad idea, you know,” Dean murmurs without conviction before he finds Castiel’s mouth again. He keeps the contact light, teasing, teeth grazing the soft swell of Castiel’s bottom lip.

“Terrible,” Castiel agrees between kisses, and Dean feels the consonants vibrate against his lips. “In fact, I believe it may be the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

Dean grins, drops his head down to rest on Castiel’s shoulder because he knows that tone of voice by now, knows when Castiel is trying to get a rise out of him just for the hell of it.

“You fucker,” he breathes, and Castiel actually _laughs,_ a quiet expulsion of air against the back of Dean’s neck. Dean feels suddenly, inconceivably _happy,_ like he hasn’t been for years, the emotion rising up inside like the swell of a tsunami and threatening to overwhelm him. Lightheaded, he tries to contain the sensation within his grasp, tuck it away in some safe corner of his mind for a rainy day, because knowing his life this unlikely peace he’s managed to find isn’t going to last.

Castiel’s fingers are ten hot pressure points against his back, pushing into skin and muscle like the angel’s trying to brand him all over again. Dean turns his head into the side of Castiel’s neck, darts his tongue out to taste the salt-tang of his skin there just because he can. Smiles when he hears the stuttered-out gasp from somewhere above him. He raises his head, meets Castiel’s eyes and sees nothing but trust there, a willingness to follow where Dean leads. It used to be that that incomprehensible devotion -- that _faith_ \-- scared the everloving crap out of him, but now he just takes it in stride, humbled and pleased by the naked affection that Castiel doesn’t bother to hide.

It’s barely seconds until their mouths are crashing together once again, as though now they’ve started this thing neither one of them can stop. This kiss is harder, more urgent than the others, slick and wet and heavy with saliva, and the phrase ‘tongue-fucking’ takes on a whole new meaning for Dean as Castiel gets deep enough to lick his tonsils. He thinks -- not without some sense of irony -- that he’s created a monster, as Castiel’s broad hands slide under the waistband of Dean’s jeans, searing against skin that’s already overheated, curving around Dean’s ass and _squeezing_. A hot throb of arousal sparks low in Dean’s stomach and he’s suddenly acutely aware of his cock straining against the front of his jeans.

He moves away from Castiel’s mouth, dragging his tongue over a stubbled jawline, leaving behind a glistening trail that evaporates almost instantly in the heat. He bites down on the soft stretch of skin just beneath Castiel’s ear, sucking the blood to the surface. Wonders how long the mark will last for, and doesn’t much care when it gets him an honest-to-god moan, Castiel tightening his grip on Dean’s ass and tugging him forward. The motion brings their hips into alignment and Dean sucks in a breath at the feel of Castiel’s erection pressed up against his own, incontrovertible evidence that Cas is just as up for this as he is. He pulls back just a little to see Castiel’s face, traces the kiss-bitten red of his mouth with clumsy fingers.

“God, Cas, I want you so much,” Dean blurts without even meaning to, but he doesn’t regret the words once they’re out. Castiel’s only response is to nod distractedly, wide-eyed, withdrawing his hands from the back of Dean’s pants to touch his face instead.

Dean doesn’t need to ask to know that Castiel’s virginity is still intact; it’s all there in the tense, slightly nervous energy of his body, the way he regards Dean with a distinctly _Castiel_ mix of fondness, exasperation and awe, as though he’s been waiting all this time for Dean to get his shit together and catch a fucking clue. Dean doesn’t really know what to do with that thought, so he pushes it aside to analyze at some other time when he’s not in danger of immolating from the liquid desire coursing through his bloodstream. All this, just from a bit of making out, and he’s almost afraid to find out what actual _sex_ with Castiel will do to him.

Almost, but not quite.

He rolls his hips up into Castiel’s, all slow and deliberate, watches the way Castiel bites his lip around a groan, head tipping forward at the contact. He isn’t the only one affected: Dean feels his cock twitch eagerly in his boxers, electric jolt of pleasure zinging up his spine even in spite of the four layers of fabric that separate them.

Castiel is already down to his shirtsleeves, having ditched his trenchcoat and suit jacket earlier at Dean’s insistence ( _come on, man, it’s making me hot just looking at you,_ and thinking back on it now Dean really can’t ignore the double entendre in that). He grips a fistful of Castiel’s shirt and hauls the material out of his pants, finds fever-hot skin underneath, fingers slipping in the sweat that’s pooled at the small of Castiel’s back, the dip of his waist, struggling to find purchase. Dean enjoys the fine tremble of muscle under the soft give of flesh as he strokes clumsy hands over the flat of Castiel’s belly, following the line of coarse hair that leads from navel to waistband.

Without pausing to think about what he’s doing, he works open the button-fly of Castiel’s pants, slides a hand inside his underwear. Castiel issues a choked-off sound when Dean’s fingers curl around his bare cock, hips shooting forward seemingly of their own volition, hand flying up to grasp at Dean’s arm like a drowning man clutching a lifeline.

“I got it, Cas. Let me take care of this.” _Let me take care of you,_ he almost says, but that’s not right; Castiel doesn’t need taking care of, and never has. Dean still finds that he wants to do it, though, and maybe that’s the whole point. He doesn’t need Castiel in the same way that he needs Sam, knows that he could survive without the angel if needs be. It would hurt like hell, though, and Dean wants Castiel around because life is just that little bit more bearable with him there, another person to help carry the burden that’s been crushing Dean as long as he can remember. Castiel eases the weight from Dean’s shoulders and has done ever since they met.

Castiel breathes out and Dean moves his hand, setting the pace slow and firm to begin with, stroking up the length of Castiel’s shaft, thumb circling the leaking head, smearing precome before travelling back down again. It’s been a long time since he last did this for another guy, but the technicalities of it still come to him easy enough, like riding a bike. And Castiel might never have done it before but his body clearly remembers what to do, working on muscle memory, shoving forward into the circle of Dean‘s fist again and again. The noises he makes should be fucking illegal, broken little _oh_ s, greedy sighs and gasps and whimpers, each one going directly from Dean’s ears to his dick, _do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars._

Someday, Dean thinks, they’ll do this properly; he’ll spread Castiel out on sheets, uncover every inch of that flawless skin and claim it as his own. But for now, this right here -- propped up awkwardly against one of Bobby’s old cars, crushed together in the too-close heat, still fully clothed with his hand jammed down Castiel’s pants -- is fucking perfect. His own little slice of Nirvana, right here in Sioux Falls.

He knows Castiel isn’t going to last much longer, not with all those millennia of pent-up sexual frustration tucked under his belt. He picks up speed, using every trick he knows because he wants to make it good for Cas, who never asks for or expects anything from Dean except for some goddamn cooperation every now and then. Castiel keens when Dean brushes over the sensitive bundle of nerves just under his cockhead, cries out when he presses a thumbnail lightly against the slit. His fingers tighten their vice-like grip around Dean’s arm, so that Dean’s absolutely sure he’ll have hand-shaped bruises tomorrow to match the burn on his shoulder. He doesn’t much care.

“Dean, _Dean_ \--” Castiel gasps raggedly, and that’s about all the warning Dean gets before Cas is coming messily all over his hand, eyelashes fluttering, head thrown back, shuddering and moaning with no self-consciousness whatsoever. Dean strokes him through the aftershocks, removing his hand only when Castiel falls silent and still, breathing heavily even though the oxygen is irrelevant.

Dean wipes his hand on his shirt with a grimace, but can’t bring himself to be too bothered about the mess. Not when Castiel is staring at him like Heaven doesn’t hold a candle to what they just did, flushing prettily all the way down to the open collar of his shirt, hair curling damp with sweat. The picture he makes brings Dean’s own temporarily-forgotten arousal back full-force, and he grinds the heel of his hand into the bulge at the front of his jeans. He’s about to reach inside and finish himself off when Castiel spins them around faster than Dean can process, slams Dean into the side of the car and crashes gracelessly to his knees on the dry, cracked earth. It takes a second or two for Dean’s brain to catch up, and when it does he just stares, poleaxed, as Castiel works open his fly.

“Cas, Jesus. You don’t have to do that.” His voice comes out hoarse, and the words are in direct contradiction to his body, which is screaming _yes_ and _now_ and _shut the fuck up, moron._

“Dean,” Castiel heads him off, using that familiar tone that brooks no argument. “I want to.”

There isn’t much Dean can say to that, so he swallows and nods dumbly, tries to ignore the inherent wrongness of an angel on its knees for _him,_ the guy who flayed souls in Hell for a decade and liked it. Castiel squeezes his thigh in warning, and Dean would bitch at him for the mind-reading but coherent thought becomes an impossibility as his jeans and underwear are shoved down unceremoniously and Castiel’s lips close around the head of his cock.

Dean gives a strangled cry, can’t stop himself from bucking forward because it’s been far too long, and this is _Cas_. Castiel takes it in stride, presses Deans hips flat against the car before continuing in his task. His inexperience is obvious, but Dean is close enough to the edge that it doesn’t even matter. It’s all tight, wet suction and heat, Castiel working him with lips and tongue and the barest hint of teeth, sighing around the weight of Dean’s cock in his mouth like there’s nothing in the world he’d rather be doing.

Dean chances a glance downwards and meets Castiel’s gaze head-on, blue eyes guileless with a faint spark of _knowing_ lurking in the corners. Dean feels an unprecedented rush of affection right then, and reaches down to fit his palm to the side of Castiel’s face. The tenderness of the gesture surprises him, at odds with the feeling of his dick pushing against the inside of Castiel’s cheek.

Castiel takes him deep, all the way down to the root, before pulling almost completely off again. Slowly, deliberately, he lets up his hold on Dean’s hips, takes Dean’s free hand in his own and places it on top of his head. It’s obvious what he’s doing, and the enormity of it threatens to overwhelm Dean for a minute. It’s an invitation, but also a reminder that Castiel is so very far from breakable, that Dean can’t hurt him with this.

Dean thrusts in deeper, fucking Castiel’s mouth and throat, fingers buried in his hair, twisting and pulling at the strands. It’s too much, surrounded by heat on all sides, flames licking up his spine, the furnace building and threatening to consume him. He could die from his, and he doesn’t think he’d mind in the slightest. Cas would just bring him back, anyway. He feels the flex of muscle tightening all around him like a vice as Castiel swallows, and that's it, _show’s over, folks._ He comes down Castiel’s throat with a shout, and Castiel just takes it, drinking him down without so much as batting an eyelid, like he’s done this a thousand fucking times before.

Dean doesn’t hesitate before he’s hauling Castiel back up to his feet, kissing him deep and fierce and fucking filthy. He can taste himself, lingering on Castiel’s tongue, behind his teeth, and he chases it down until all that’s left is Cas. When they break apart, they’re both panting and breathless; Castiel’s hair sticks out in a billion different directions where Dean’s fingers have mussed it up, and he’s smiling. Dean feels sated and oddly delirious, like he’s filling up with helium, heart tripping a crazy rhythm in his chest. He thinks he could get addicted to this. Thinks he could fall in love with this, if he let himself.

The thing about bad ideas is, they often have this way of working out for the best.

He spares a brief moment to wonder why it took them this long to get here, but it occurs to him that the time was never right before now. It was war that brought them together, and every one of their interactions up until just over a month ago had taken place within the wider context of violence and pointless, random bloodshed, the end of the fucking world. Between angels and demons, Michael and Lucifer, missing souls and civil wars, there was simply no time for _them_

The world has been quiet for a while now, almost five weeks since Castiel called them from an impromptu battlefield in the middle of the Nevada desert, bruised and battered but victorious, surrounded by a dozen empty vessels and standing over Raphael’s body, sword dripping gore. There’s a part of Dean that’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop, but he can’t ignore the tentative hope that grows stronger with every day that the calm persists. Sam has his soul back, and Cas is alive, and Bobby’s alive, and right now that’s all Dean’s asking for. If anything else comes up, he figures they’ll just have to deal with it when it happens, the way they always do.

“I’m taking an extended vacation from Heaven,” Castiel announces suddenly, breaking the silence that’s settled over them. Dean blinks at him, too stunned for a moment to say anything. Every time he thinks Castiel can’t surprise him anymore…

“You’re -- for real?”

“Yes. Now that things have quietened down… I think I’ve earned it, don’t you?”

“You can say that again,” Dean agrees, thinking of how hard Castiel’s fought, everything he’s sacrificed. He falls silent, contemplating how best to put what he wants to say next into words. “You know, Sam and I are probably going to be heading out again soon, before Bobby kills us in our sleep. You’re, you know. Welcome to come with, if you want…”

He trails off awkwardly, realizing how stupid it sounds once the words are out of his mouth. Castiel probably wants to spend his downtime sampling the wonders of the earth, not riding around in the back of Dean’s car, hunting monsters in small-town America. Castiel surprises him once again, however, when the corners of his mouth tip up into a tiny smile that Dean wants to kiss right off his face.

“I think I would like that.”

“Good. That’s -- good.”

“I’m glad,” Castiel comments neutrally. Though his expression doesn’t change, there’s just a hint of a smirk dancing in his eyes, if you know where to look for it. Dean swats him upside the head, then pulls him close and kisses him again, unable to resist the soft, generous give of that mouth.

Afterwards, they stand close together, foreheads touching, noses brushing. Dean threads his fingers through Castiel’s, holds on tight and doesn’t let go.

 _[end.]_


End file.
